


Malfunction

by Blurhawaii



Series: Almost Human [1]
Category: Almost Human
Genre: M/M, hints of PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blurhawaii/pseuds/Blurhawaii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The leg sometimes malfunctions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malfunction

**Author's Note:**

> I, too, have fallen into the trap of writing about a show that hasn't even aired yet.
> 
> I blame Karl Urban.

The leg sometimes malfunctions.

It’s not really a problem until one day, at the worst possible time, it is.

He’s chasing some punk on foot, and they do not pay him nearly enough for this shit, when he ducks into a stairwell. The clattering of the door behind him gives him away and John pauses only for a moment to track whether the kid’s heading up or down over his own harsh breathing.

Down, he quickly decides, and he’s already got a floor or two on him so he’s got to pick up the pace.

The leg holds out pretty well in the beginning. With the help of the railing, he manages to descend the floors two strides at a time until he catches a flash of the guy’s jacket just ahead. John spins on the landing to floor three and grabs a fistful of material before it disappears and that’s when it all goes wrong.  
He briefly registers shock on the kid’s face but it soon gets replaced with this grim kind of determination and before John can steady himself, he’s using the connection to yank him off his feet. His shoulder collides with the wall hard enough to jar his teeth. The punk then uses the momentum to hip check him and all the air in John’s lungs escapes him in a huff.

As if letting the kid catch him off guard isn’t bad enough, it’s then, as he lunges again that his leg decides now would be a good time to go to shit. It buckles under his weight, as helpful as paper, and John can’t do anything but slide uselessly down the wall. The kid’s eyes light up with the knowledge that this is his chance and he spares no time in finding his feet and tearing off down the remaining steps without bothering to look back.

John barely registers the kid escape as pain ripples up the leg in a way he didn’t think it was capable of and, when he rolls up the right leg of his pants, he swears he can see the limb spasm. Except that isn’t the right word, this isn’t flesh, this is machine. He tries to stand but doesn’t get very far; the leg starts to vibrate under the slightest amount of pressure and he beats his fist against the floor until he can’t figure out which hurts more.

When he eventually and shakily makes his way down the rest of the stairs, he finds Dorian just outside with his hand wrapped in the collar of the kid’s jacket. He’s suffering the indignation of the handcuffs just fine but it’s the synthetic’s grip that has the kid twisting and barking abuse. Dorian ignores it with a calm disinterest, which only turns to faint worry as John limps over with a scowl.

“Detective Kennex,” he starts, only to think better of it when John throws up his hand and storms past as well as he can with a barely functioning leg.

-

Later on, after the punk’s been booked and dealt with, John corners a medic and talks loudly at him until he agrees to give his leg a once over. Something off the record, he presses. Though, he immediately regrets his decision when he has to roll up his pants once more and the medic’s face is passive and clinical.

He grips the edge of the counter he’d boosted onto and grits his teeth, doing his best to avoid the sight of pale fingers probing at something he refuses to think of as his leg and simply waits it out. Something electronic beeps then, alerting them that it has finished whatever scan it was set to complete and, while the medic looks over the results, John stands and jams his hands deep into his pockets.

When the medic finally looks up, John can already tell he’s not going to like what comes out of his mouth.

“According to these scans, there’s nothing wrong.” He shrugs and John fights back the urge to snarl.

“Well, that’s bullshit then because I can tell you this…this thing is far from fully functional.”

The medic shakes his head and runs a finger along the pad in his hands, checking the results again.

“If you’re truly experiencing problems,” he starts, and that’s almost enough for John to slam the guy into a wall and not feel guilty about it, “I can only assume they’re mental and not physical.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? You think I’m making this up?”

John makes a fist around the canister of pills in his pocket and it’s the only thing now that’s stopping him from introducing it to the medic’s face. Repeatedly.

“You’re misunderstanding me,” the medic replies casually and he holds his palms up in weak defence. “When do you find that your leg usually malfunctions?”

In his head, John thinks, this is not my fucking leg, but out loud he answers, “When I need it,” through clenched teeth.

“Exactly,” the medic smiles, “moments of increased adrenaline and pressure. If there really was something mechanically wrong then it would also malfunction at times of rest.”

John sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. He tries not to recall the nights he’s been alone in his apartment, holding his hand to the trembling synthetic knee, desperately willing the shaking would just stop. He doesn’t bother to bring up the times the pain was so bad, he’d medicated it in his own way with drinking himself to sleep. It wouldn’t do him any favours; it would just prove how much of a fuckup he really was.

“So there’s nothing you can do,” John asks, already knowing the answer.

“Besides seeing a psychiatrist?” One raise of his eyebrow is enough to shoot down that idea and the medic purses his lips in medical disagreement. “If you’re still regularly taking your pills, there’s nothing else I can suggest.” He takes another look at John’s tense stance and locked jaw and adds, “Maybe a vacation?”

John snorts. He makes a show of swallowing one of his tiny red pills, which he half suspects are placebos anyway, and heads for the door. If there’s a hitch in his step, neither one of them acknowledges it.

“Well thanks for nothing,” John says.

Just before the door shuts behind him, he hears a sarcastic, “You’re welcome,” and something tells him this is going to be written up somewhere anyway, regardless of his not so gentle persuasion. Fucking traitors, he thinks.

-

Even later still, John finds himself sitting at a food stall, with no concrete memory of how he got here, and Dorian pressed up against his shoulder, which makes even less sense because while the market may be crowded, it’s densely packed with everything except other bodies. The steady fall of rain has made sure of that.

Some Eastern dish, with a name he can’t pronounce, gets placed in front of him. This means that Dorian has done that thing again, where he acts like he cares. John underlines it on the mental list of things he hates about the synthetic but deigns to eat it just because it would be a waste of good food otherwise. As he lifts it to his mouth, his arm deliberately brushes against solid warmth that could easily be mistaken for flesh and bone.

“It’s getting worse,” Dorian eventually says, breaking the pleasant silence. It’s also not a question, it’s an observation. John chews obnoxiously.

“What, your suffocating curiosity?” he growls and Dorian clucks his tongue in a remarkably human display of annoyance.

“I mean you’re only making things more difficult for yourself,” Dorian tries again but he still doesn’t turn to face him, they’re both avoiding looking at each other and John’s thankful for that at least.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

When John forces a laugh it sounds ridiculous even to him. He’s dimly aware of the shudder that passes through him and when it continues to that fucking leg of his, he stamps his heel down in hopes that it will stop the shaking before it gets too bad. Dorian keeps talking as if he hasn’t noticed.

“Do you really hate synthetics so much that you’re willing to cause yourself harm?”

Now normally John would have told the synthetic to shut his mouth at this point but a stabbing pain has him palming his thigh instead. He tightens his jaw in line with the growing discomfort and pushes his half-eaten meal across the counter.

“I don’t think I fucking care for where you’re going with this,” John grounds out and finally Dorian turns in his seat to stare him down.

“This,” Dorian says, “this is where I’m going with this.” John only has enough time to blink in confusion before Dorian breaks every unspoken rule they have between them and reaches across to wrap his fingers around John’s knee. Their eyes snap together. “You can’t even bear to think we have something in common, can you?”

A distant voice in his head soothes John by reminding him that Dorian’s not really touching him because it’s machine against machine, but his body betrays him and he can’t help but enjoy the contact whether it’s technically real or not.

Obviously, the universe is out to get him. Like a switch has been flicked, the trembling stops and Dorian squeezes once before letting go.

“There, see, it’s not so bad, is it?” he says and he even has the balls to look smug about it too.

When John finds his voice again, he clears throat and says clearly, enunciating every word, “Never touch me again.”

Like the little shit he is, Dorian laughs and collects the bowl of food he’d pushed away earlier and places it back in front of him, telling him to eat. John does but it’s only because he’s suddenly feeling hungry not because he’s repaying some kind of debt.

The rain continues to fall around them.


End file.
